Satisfied that there were no obvious cameras about and no threat from the sole customer, an old man trying to decide between treating himself to real orange juice or the usual Tang, she strode across the checkered linoleum floor to the immensely fat man behind the counter. Jesus, the only way women would be attracted to him would be through gravity, she thought.

In one smooth action she pulled out a Colt, blasted two of the bottles of cheap booze behind him and leveled the gun directly between his eyes.

‘Empty the register!’

The storekeeper’s shoulders slumped. Here we go again. He had felt the sudden, disconcerting eddy of air from the path of the second bullet against his left cheek. ‘Look lady, I’ve less than five hundred,’ he apologized in advance, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. ‘I’ve only been open a couple of hours and there’s no hidden safe. I only ever keep a float of two-fifty in the register. All the rest goes to the bank each day miss.’ The storekeeper remained calm. In truth this was the second time he had been held up that night.

‘I don’t give a rat’s ass! And don’t tell me to miss. I never miss. Empty the fucking register now and give me your wallet and a couple of aspirins! I’ve got a bitch of a period.’

Oh shit. The owner complied without hesitation. ‘Great, I get the comedian,’ he mumbled to himself.

As he began stuffing crumpled notes into a brown paper bag, Powell scrutinized the old man ten feet away to her left. He was standing stock-still by the OJ watching her keenly. As she turned her attention back to the storekeeper, the door to the drugstore flew open and two dark figures ran in, immediately taking cover behind some shelving before she could draw a bead on them.

‘FBI! Drop the gun. Now!’

Helen needed leverage. Human leverage. She couldn’t easily get to the storekeeper as both the counter and the register were between them. Instead she dove to her left, somersaulting across the floor as she did so and came up neatly beside but just behind the old man. Snapping her left arm across his larynx she jerked his body in front of hers, his tweed hat tumbling onto the floor. The old man could feel her breasts pushing hard into his back. If it hadn’t been for the two guns aimed in his direction and the one digging against his right temple, it was the greatest thing to have happened to him for a while.

‘Let the civilian go, lose the gun and get down on the floor, now!’ barked one of the agents.

‘You lose the guns and lie down! You got ten seconds or I’ll waste him,’ she shouted back. The storekeeper stayed cowered behind the counter. For once it wasn’t going to be him that was gunned down in a standoff.

‘You kill him, you’re dead!’ yelled the agent.

‘You’re confusing me with someone who gives a fuck!’ As she spat the words, the red dot of light that had centered on her exposed gun hand suddenly moved up to her right eye, temporarily blinding her. As a reflex she moved her gun hand up to shield her eye only to have it seized by powerful hands behind her which continued the motion upwards and behind her. The speed was such that the gun flew out of her hand and clattered safely onto the floor out of her reach. A knee pushed hard into her back and she sprawled helplessly onto the linoleum.

Before she could orientate herself she was pinned down, her left hand being pulled roughly back as the cuffs were applied. Damn. She had concentrated so much on the first agent that she had only assumed that the second was still with him.

‘You probably know Miss Miranda better than me, so let’s cut the crap, OK?’ he said with no hint of remorse into her ear.

As the first agent pulled out a notepad and started to take down particulars from the storekeeper and the old man, the second agent pulled Helen roughly to her feet and marched her towards the drugstore’s entrance, his gun deep in the small of her back. She feigned a limp as she walked. As she approached the open doorway, she suddenly pivoted on her right heel and into the agent immediately behind her. Her left knee came up hard between his legs, giving him a new set of tonsils and he went down. Before the first agent could respond, she had run out of the store and into the night.

‘Time out!’ ordered the old man. ‘The debriefing room in fifteen, people. And someone tell Toni she can stop running now.’

Ten minutes later once he had taken off the make-up, a more youthful version of Samuel J. Hawthorne regarded himself in the men’s room mirror. Not too bad, a few crow’s feet around the eyes maybe. He wasn’t vain by any means, but he had just hit thirty-nine, and wasn’t looking forward to his next birthday. Anniversary, he corrected himself. Once he had reached a quarter of a century, he had started to celebrate the anniversary of it each year. Please God, don’t let Annie and the kids throw a party for my fifteenth.

His looks were reasonably close to the FBI ideal – short black hair, blue eyes, though one with a small green fleck in it – the sort of thing only close inspection in the mirror or by a lover would notice, and medium-strong angular features. He rated himself a seven, which was about right. At five-ten and one-seventy pounds, his build would not stand out in a crowd either, which was perfect for his stint a few years earlier as an undercover agent assigned to the NSD in Washington. If ever anyone walked past the ‘Absolutely No Suspects Past This Point’ sign in any of the field offices, they would have predominantly seen a bunch of nobodies.

Hawthorne was one of the hundred and sixty instructors at the FBI Academy, located on the US Marine Corps Base at Quantico, Virginia. Opened three days after Hoover’s death in ’72, it is situated on three hundred and eighty-five acres of woodland and comprises three dorms, a dining hall, a classroom building, a thousand-seater auditorium most campuses would die for, a gym and an assortment of firing ranges. It also included the training ground Hawthorne had just been employing. The DEA and Forensic Science Research and Training Center also shared the facility.

Unlike most of the other instructors who were full-time Hawthorne was only on loan from Washington for sixteen weeks, the standard course length. Although he was only into his second week, he had proved popular with his students. Like any teacher worth their salary, he preferred to let his class debate amongst themselves, only offering guidance when they went off track or missed something. He always remembered his biology teacher reciting notes from a dog-eared book for the class to copy down like drones.

Donning his black leather jacket over jeans and the class T-shirt, white and proclaiming ‘Perfect Practice Prevents Piss-Poor Policing’ in blue lettering across the chest, Hawthorne crossed Hogan’s Alley, the name given to the FBI’s training ground, and entered the large wooden hut at the end of the street. Inside was quite spartan, with rows of small classroom tables each accompanied by identical black plastic chairs, all facing a well-used blackboard. The only signs of luxury were a TV/VCR unit in one corner and a well-used coffee machine next to a single telephone in the other.

Hawthorne was greeted by the sight of seventeen similar T-shirts, most of which were partially covered by unbuttoned shirts. The two students who had taken part in the exercise and were still in suits, together with Bradbury, the other instructor that they hadn’t met before tonight, were also in attendance. She was leaning against the side, whitewashed wall with her arms folded.

‘Well, you all watched it on Candid Camera,’ he addressed the class as he strode businesslike to the blackboard. Hawthorne was referring to the camera that had been hidden in a box of cereal by the counter. Turning to the two suits he continued, ‘but first I want to ask Kevin and Chuck for their take. Nice move with the laser-sighting by the way.’ Bradbury nodded in agreement.

‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Kevin. ‘I think Chuck made the basic mistake of being too close to Helen when he was taking her out of the drugstore. If you’re that close, the target can simply move to the side and back in one swift motion, as happened here. Your gun becomes useless – the target’s body is blocking the gun arm and then it’s up close and personal.’

‘Agreed,’ nodded Hawthorne, pleased with the observation. ‘Two steps minimum distance. Anything you want to add, Chuck? What about Kevin’s performance?’

‘I’d really rather not talk at the moment,’ Chuck responded with a weak voice, still clutching his family’s jewels. His face had yet to return to its normal color.

‘Guess you’ll remember this lesson at least,’ Hawthorne smiled. ‘Anyone?’ Several hands went up. ‘Jane.’

‘Kevin was shouting at the top of his voice. It was almost like that drill sergeant in An Officer And A Gentleman.’

‘Louis Gossett, Jr.’ volunteered another student.

‘Anyway,’ Jane continued, irritated that she had not remembered the name. ‘I realize that it was a diversion tactic so that Chuck could flank her unawares, but in my opinion it was dangerous. It could easily have inflamed the situation from a shouting match to a shooting match.’

‘Correct,’ nodded Hawthorne seriously. ‘Voice control is essential in this business and one of the greatest weapons at your disposal. Remember the old adage, the more someone shouts the less the other person hears? But what’s more important?’ he probed.

One student raised his hand. ‘Body language,’ he said with confidence. ‘Pardon me ma’am,’ he said turning to Bradbury, ‘but just ’coz Helen Powell looks like the Venus de Milo with arms and, er, breasts one should look to what the body does, not to what the body looks like.’ Helen Powell was the name given to all female criminals in Hogan’s Alley.

‘Go on,’ Hawthorne encouraged.

‘Chuck should have noticed how she rolled to you, Sam,’ continued the student. ‘That was smooth and should have forewarned him that she was probably trained in combat tactics. It only compounded his error later. Most men have got one brain, one penis, and only enough blood to supply one at a time.’

‘Looking to get laid tonight, John?’ Hawthorne teased. Chuckles all round.

‘Er, no Sam,’ responded the now sheepish pupil, consciously avoiding Bradbury’s direction.

‘John’s right. I missed that one,’ Chuck confirmed with a slightly strangled voice. ‘I thought Helen was being played by one of the Day-by-Day Associates,’ he said referring to the hired actors used in the Quantico training sessions.

‘Body language is the fundamental as you will learn in the coming weeks,’ explained Hawthorne. ‘By the way, Chuck, I overheard you reading the rights to Helen. This may be a training exercise and you think you are at liberty to give a Mel Gibson or Bruce Willis version. If it came to court, an able defense attorney would be able to get the old man to state exactly what you said, and all your heroics would have been for nothing. Don’t ever, ever, do it again, even in training.’ Chuck nodded, accepting the rebuke.

‘You’re all still missing the most important point of the exercise. Think.’ Silence.

‘Actually it was Kevin who ballsed up,’ hinted Hawthorne. He held out his hand in apology. ‘Oh, sorry Chuck.’ A groan emanated from Chuck, still in agony.

‘Come on people. Think.’ There were no takers.

Hawthorne’s bleeper broke the silence. He checked the message and walked briskly over to the phone. ‘Toni, take over.’

As Hawthorne dialed and spoke softly into the mouthpiece Bradbury put them out of their misery. She paced around the room as she spoke. ‘The two of you should never have entered the drugstore in the first place. A quick look-see through the window would have shown that the storekeeper was complying with instructions. They’re almost only ever in real danger if they offer resistance or if the suspect is highly drugged. A quick tell of both body languages would have confirmed that neither was the case.

‘You should have waited until Helen had exited the premises,’ she expanded. ‘Flashing lights or the screeching of tires outside hadn’t forewarned her of your presence. Kevin raced in headfirst, with Chuck duty-bound to back him up. Instead of a controlled situa-’. Hawthorne interrupted her as he put down the phone and strode purposefully towards the door.

‘Sorry to butt in Toni, I’ve got to go to Washington immediately. Can you mop up?’

‘Sure.’ He didn’t hear her. The door was already closed behind him as he started to jog under the stars towards the car park.

"Those who are too smart to engage in
politics are punished
by being governed by those who are dumber."

At four-thirty in the morning, the effects of being up all night were beginning to take their toll on President Arnold Wilburforce as he ran his hands through the shock of white hair. He took off his glasses and pinched the inner corners of his eyes. Although he had got used to averaging only four hours sleep any incursion on that was deeply felt.

After two centuries of experience, the support mechanism for the presidency had an answer. He ripped open a small gray metallic sachet and poured a fine white powder into a crystal glass and filled it to the brim from a matching crystal decanter on the small walnut table. He drank it down in one. Tasteless, he sneered inwardly. Can’t be doing me any good then. Why does good medicine always taste so goddamn awful?

In truth the powder contains a much smaller amount of a Benzedrine derivative than Presidents are led to believe by the White House pharmacy. This version, unlike its predecessor, does not have the drawbacks of imbibing the recipient with overconfidence, but still boosts alertness and functionality for some hours. More importantly, it is non-addictive. Only Reagan had refused to draw upon this crutch and he paid for it dearly when he fell asleep in front of the Pope and one billion people.

The only other drug that Wilburforce in common with every world leader took was a vasopressin/diphenoxylate/atropine combination. Vasopressin is an antidiuretic hormone and was first used by the British Royal Family. It has never been superceded. Wilburforce often wondered how much Yeltsin required. The latter two compounds had been developed by NASA to restrict the bowel movements of astronauts.

Wilburforce was continually amazed that the public had never cottoned on to it. How else can we endure hour after hour of state functions and banquets and never need to take a leak?

‘Okay, Owen,’ he sighed as he wearily replaced his glasses, ‘What’s the score?’

Jacobs quickly swallowed his piece of hot buttered toast. ‘Well, I’ve run it through the computer model and I think it’s probably in the ballpark,’ he said cautiously. It was early days yet. ‘Initially you’ll close the gap between you and Harlow to three points from the current fourteen, due to the knee-jerk reaction to a threat against the USA. Also, people will perceive that the Administration must be doing something right if some bad guy, be he domestic or foreign, decided to assassinate Robert.

‘You’ll lose some support as some people will view the Administration as incompetent, unable to protect their own, but overall you’ll be around three behind,’ he concluded as he closed the file that rested on his lap.

Dr. Owen Jacobs was the sharpest political analyst around and had never bothered to major. The two ass-kissing honorary doctorates bestowed upon him last year did not count in his mind.

He had started out life in the outskirts of Aspen, helping out in his father’s general store at weekends from the age of nine. Even in those early days he had proved to be shrewd in business. He always seemed to know what the latest fashion of skiwear or the latest toy-craze was at an exceptionally early stage. His father was skeptical at first, but after young Owen had been proved right time after time he had begun to listen and take action on his son’s advice. Hell, after several years, he might even be able to open a second store, something Owen’s grandfather had dreamed of.

But it was not to be – Jacobs Junior had bigger plans. A consumer analyst for one of the larger retail chains was a regular customer and had marveled at the perception this adolescent possessed. He had even rode on the boy’s back a few times, promulgating some of the insights as his own. It had worked out well for both of them. The analyst was if anything fair in sharing his commission.

At the age of sixteen Jacobs had dropped out of school and joined the same chain as the analyst. His father was not best pleased when he had broken the news to him. In fact, the two only reconciled many years later when Jacobs had moved from working for a direct competitor of his father’s business into the political arena. Working for the retail chain had proved lucrative but ultimately unsatisfying to Jacobs. His real skill lay in reading people, not attending product focus groups.

He had learned that the governor at the time was